Special
by reading-is-in
Summary: How Sam met Pastor Jim. Slightly AU in terms of the timing of power revelations. Angst ahoy.
1. Chapter 1

For once, Sam was glad to move.

Beach View, NJ, was primarily a holiday town – 'Fun for all the family since 1914', as the boardwalk billboards had it. July, the height of the tourist season, and the piers and amusement parks and arcades seethed with crowds in the daytime. After hours, teenagers hung out and hooked up, drinking beer from cans and losing their small change in the slot machines. For a few days it had been mildly amusing – Dad was keeping them in the dark on this hunt, and school was out, which left him and Dean pretty much to their own devices. Dean had landed a couple of shifts at one of the crappier local bars and fixed Sam up with a fake ID – you had to be 18 to enter, and once you got in they served you regardless, and at fifteen Sam was tall enough to just about pull it off. Dean spent his time chatting up girls from the county college and embarrassing their boyfriends by taking their money at the pool table. Surprisingly, he wasn't bugging Dad to let him in on whatever business had brought them to Beach View, not so far as Sam could see. Sam was going through a phase where everything Dean did irritated him, including and especially the way he just _assumed_ responsibility for keeping Sam clothed and fed, as though Sam couldn't have gotten a job if he wanted to. Fuckin' martyr complex.

His low-level irritation with everything was fuelled by heat and poor sleep. He'd been having those dreams – they didn't make any sense, but they left him uneasy and feeling like there was a shadow at his back. He didn't want to sleep, but being awake was becoming increasingly tiring. By the end of the first week, both the bar and the surrounding area had gotten more than old. Sam was on the couch, flicking back and forth between the Late Show and an infomercial for a set of stainless steel cooking pots that stacked inside each other like Russian dolls when Dad got home and ordered,

"Go to bed – we're leaving in the morning," and Sam breathed out in relief. Then Dad did a visible double take and asked, "Where's your brother?"

"Work," said Sam, turning the TV off.

"What kind of work?" Dad dumped hi s backpack on the kitchen counter and started to unpack it. Sam caught the glint of a blade in the sickly synthetic lighting.

"At a bar," Sam elaborated, making no move to get up from the couch.

"He make a habit of leaving you alone at night?" Dad didn't turn around, and his tone was mild, the kind of mild that meant something was pissing him off and was about to get vented on somebody. Sam considered saying, _'No, sometimes I go to the bar,'_ but thought better of it – for once he wasn't in the mood for a full-on shouting match.

"No," he said. "It's just we ran out of money this week. It's only a couple of shifts."

Dad might almost have looked chagrined - Sam was attempting to read from the set of his  
>back. "Alright." He opened the fridge, got a beer, and sat down at the only table to start on cleaning the weapons.<p>

Stalling, Sam asked, "How was the hunt?"

"Unproductive," Dad grunted.

Sam looked questioningly at the blood he was cleaning off of his weapons.

"I was looking for information," Dad said shortly. "I didn't get it."

Silence hung between them. A weird feeling crept up Sam's spine, but he dismissed it. His father was secretive, obsessive, single-minded in his pursuit of the demon, but there were lines he would not cross. Sam never really believed otherwise.

"Anything else happen while I was away?" Dad asked.

"No," Sam said pointedly, managing to load the reply with his general opinion of Beach View.

"Alright then," said Dad archly. He turned around and studied Sam for a moment. "Now go to bed."

"I can't sleep."

"Why not?" Something flickered across Dad's face then.

"The fan's too loud, and it's too hot without the fan."

Dad rolled his eyes. "You'll manage somehow."

Sam felt a sudden surge of anger towards his father, fierce and out of proportion to the conversation. God. Why was he the only one who realized the sheer fucked-upedness of their situation? He kicked the couch on his way out, not bothering to make it look like an accident. And he hadn't been lying. He _couldn't_ sleep. Fan on, fan off, fan on again. Don't pre-empt the dream. The moon was too bright. Tiny biting insects found their way through the crack in the window, particularly drawn to the thin skin at the back of knees. Sam kicked the covers off, and realized he'd forgotten to ask where they were going.

The door opened in the hall.

"Dad!" said Dean's voice.

"We're heading to Jim's in the morning," his father said.

Sam sat up straight in bed. Who was Jim?

"You're close then?" his brother sounded shocked.

"Not to finding it," their father sighed.

Sam frowned. What else was there to be close to?

"Dad…"

"Yes?"

"Look I'm not – you know what's best, okay? It's just – it's fine. He's fine. Everything's  
>fine. Why do we have to…?"<p>

His father sighed. "Believe me, I hope you're right. I'm just trying to be forearmed, Dean. I hope to God nothing ever comes of it."

Sam sighed heavily. More mysteries. When would his family start telling him anything? Dad, he could put up with. It had always been that way. But it stung a little that his brother saw fit to treat him like a child.

"Who's Jim?" Sam asked casually when Dean came into the bedroom, dumping his own backpack on the other bed.

"Your prom date," said Dean, but there was a slight hesitation. "Why were you listening in, woman?"

"Only way I ever find anything out around here."

"Put the goddam fan on, it's baking in here. I'm going to shower."

Sam sighed theatrically again and stood on his bed to pull the cord on the fan. Fifteen minutes later, when they were both lying the dark not asleep, aware of the other awake and holding a battle of wills to see who would say something first, Dean said,

"He's a friend of Dad's, obviously. A hunter. And like –a pastor."

"Like a pastor, or is pastor?" This was new.

"Is a pastor. Lives in one of those houses attached to a church. You've been there when you were little, you wouldn't remember."

"How old was I?"

"Four or five? I dunno. We used to go there a lot after…"

"Why did we stop? Did he and Dad have an argument?" Sam propped himself up on one elbow. His brother was looking at the ceiling. It was a tactical error – as soon as Dean saw that Sam was looking at him, he immediately turned away.

"How should I know? I was like, nine. Go to sleep."

Silence.

"I got that girl muesli crap you wanted at the 7/11," said Dean as a peace offering.

"You didn't have to do that."

"You'd only bitch about it in the morning if I didn't. Now seriously, shut up. We have to be up at five."

Sam stopped talking.

He fell asleep, and dreamed again - of yellow eyes, the thing at the back of his memory that spoke to him occasionally and made him wake, abruptly, goosebumps on his skin and cold fear of who knew what in the pit of his stomach. The residual thrill of something else. Excitement.

Dean was sound asleep. The moon was full and streaming through the window. Sam threw the covers off and stumbled to the bathroom to get a drink of water. On his way back to bed, the peculiar prickle of being watched crept its way up his spine. He turned abruptly, in the direction of his father's doorway, but there was only darkness.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

"Dean," said Sammy when he was eight years old, "I'm adopted, right?"

"I wish," Dean had answered, not looking up from his car magazine: "Then maybe we could return you."

"No I mean it," Sammy persisted, climbing up on the top bunk and pulling the magazine down so Dean had to look at him, "I've figured it out. You don't have to lie to me anymore. You can tell Dad too."

"Why the hell would you think you were adopted?" Dean glared at him, but he didn't shove him off the bed.

"Shht! Don't swear, Because one, you're Dad's favorite."

Dean snorted.

"Two, I don't look anything ilike/i you. Or Dad. But you look like Dad."

"You look like Mom," said Dean shortly. "Shut up."

Sammy was momentarily taken aback. It was very rare that Dean mentioned their mother.

"Well, anyway, it explains everything," Sammy went on melodramatically. "How come I'm not like you. How come I'm different."

"Oh, you're different alright," said Dean dryly. "Sammy, you are not adopted. I remember when Mom was pregnant with you-" Sammy screwed up his nose in disgust at the mention of pregnancy – "and I remember them bringing you home from the hospital. Okay?"

Sammy paused, momentarily stopped in his logic by curiosity.

"What was I like?"

"Gross. All red and wrinkly. Same as all babies."

"Maybe they brought home the wrong baby by mistake then," Sammy pointed out. "Maybe your ireal/i brother is somewhere else with a whole different family."

"They didn't bring home the wrong baby, dorkface!" Now Dean did shove him, but towards the wall, not towards the edge of the bunk bed. "That only happens in chick flicks. Trust me, Sammy, you are my real brother. Unfortunately."

Sammy stuck his tongue out at Dean. "I'm going to ask Dad."

"Don't ask Dad," said Dean quickly.

"Just don't, okay? You'll make him mad, and it's stupid."

Sammy hesitated, considered Dean's suddenly earnest expression.

"Okay," he relented. "But I do know." And climbed down.

Being tired all the time sucked – the persistent vague sensation of never quite getting enough sleep to be on top form, duller than a headache, a kind of heavy soreness that started at the back of his head and spread down into his shoulders. Dad ordered a morning run, as usual, and Sam concentrated on the rhythmic thud-thud of his trainers on the dirt path, 6 a.m. sun on the back of his neck, not watching where he was going.

"Sloppy," Dean flicked water at him from the bottle when they stopped at the halfway point, by a pond in the scrub trees outside the city limits.

"Jerkoff," said Sam nastily, because it was a fair observation.

"Keep stomping like that and you'll fuck up your knees. You growing again or something? I swear, dude, you're gonna end up like a carnival freak. The amazing beanpole boy."

Sam slid his eyes across to his brother, who was sitting on a rock drinking water and pretending not to watch Sam. Barely even taxed, Dean was already getting his breathing back to a regular rhythm, though dark patches of sweat stained the neck and sides of his t-shirt. Sam resented him: resented the easy masculinity and physicality which Dad had maintained as a standard of strength for both of them. Maybe in another life, his brother would've been a Marine too: if he could drop the apparently instinctive sneer at anyone in a uniform. Sam could just see him, buddying around with the troops, enjoying the weapons, the hard work, the luxury of having your duty laid out for you. Hell on earth. It just figured that the place most guys ran to escape their families was basically a more public variation of what Sam was trying to escape. The thought brought him up short. He had not yet admitted, even to himself, that he wanted out for good. He put it aside and focused on the immediate: right now he felt like he'd finished a marathon, and they still had the same distance to run back. Dean had asked him a question.

"I dunno. Probably." Sam drained his own water bottle, propped his elbows on his knees, and pressed his closed eyes into his fists. "Just didn't get much sleep."

"Again? Why?" The note of concern was obvious. Sam watched the red-brown patterns swim behind his closed eyelids.

"Weird dreams," he said again, voice muffled to his own ears.

"About what?"

"I dunno. Not bad. Just weird." Something about…something. That annoying sensation of _feeling_ what your dream had been like, but lacking memory images. Just out of reach of conscious thought, vanishing if looked at.

"You read too much," was Dean's diagnosis.

"I read _books_," said Sam pointedly.

"Holy shit, you really are a bitch these days, you know that?"

'I know', Sam almost admitted. He knew that when he was miserable, some deep mean streak in him drove him to make everyone miserable around him.

"Let's just go," he said, raising his head. The sooner they started back on this run, the sooner it would be over.

New Jersey to Minnesota was a hell of a road trip. Even Dad couldn't pretend they could do it less than two days. He let Dean do some driving, which made his brother happier than an all-you-can eat deal at a BBQ grill, and Sam sat in the back and read _Great Expectations _for the second time. The escape to Victorian England, combined with gloomy old houses, sadistic adults, fate and destroyed dreams of progress, was a grim comfort to him. He mentally commiserated with the child Pip, and looked on with a mixture of sympathy and superiority as he inherited his fortune from a dark mysterious benefactor. The moral: good things fuck you over, Sam presumed. He fell asleep, and dreamed of a toothless old man who came bearing good fortune. He startled awake with the realization that the man's eyes were bright yellow.

The holed up in a single motel room – going stir crazy, Sam asked for and obtained permission to go get a coke from a vending machine down the hallway. He dawdled on the way back, making the most of even a few minutes to himself, and stopped abruptly outside their door when he heard Dean say to their father:

"So Dad…do you think Sammy's…doing okay?" Sam froze. He glanced up and down the hallway, clutching the lukewarm can so tight he was half afraid he would break it. He pressed himself to the corridor wall, feeling his heart beat hard.

"I think he's a teenager, on top of everything," Dad said. "Why?"

"It's just…he has nightmares practically every night. Sometimes he doesn't remember. But I see it. He's freaking iangry/i. Not like, I'm fifteen and I hate everything angry, like…." Dean trailed off. Sam could practically see the vague gesture he could make.

Dad sighed heavily. "What else do you want me to do, Dean? I'm gathering information. I'm following the leads. Like you said, maybe nothing will ever happen. He doesn't remember any dreams."

Now Sam was confused. Sure, he was a teenager on top of being a hunter – and a Winchester for that matter – but what did his dreams have to do with it? It wasn't like they made any sense. They were never even the same thing, except, except for…

…something. Someone?

"Yeah," Dean said heavily after a moment. Sam had had enough. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked a third time. The door was unbolted.

"Why are you talking about me?" he demanded, into his father's face.


	3. Chapter 3

For the briefest of moments, Dad actually looked taken aback. Then he pulled Sam inside roughly by the arm and slammed the door behind them. Sam yelped like it hurt more than it did, and rubbed his arm, glaring.

"_You _are not to listen in," his father told him.

"Bullshit," snapped Sam. "You were talking about me. Whatever the hell is going on, I have a right to know."

"Do _not_ take that tone with me, Samuel," Dad said dangerously. "I'm doing what I have to in order to protect you boys. Everything I am doing is to keep you safe, and find the demon. If you need to know something, I will tell you. Otherwise, you will do as you're told without answering back. Consider this your warning." They held each other's eyes for a moment, Sam feeling his cheeks heat up with anger and humiliation. He wanted to hit  
>something. Dad, maybe. The thought stole his breath.<p>

"Guys," said Dean nervously.

"Be quiet Dean," Dad said shortly, and Dean immediately fell silent.

"Go to bed," Dad said to Sam. "Actually, no. Go and sit in the car and cool down. Come back when you're ready to act like an adult." He tossed Sam the keys, and Sam caught them on a reflex motion. He very briefly considered taking the car and leaving. That thought ended as abruptly as it had begun. He didn't even have a fake driver's license. Where exactly would he go? He had no supplies. Plus, whilst Dad could go to hell, he couldn't quite bring himself to do to that to his brother. Instead he just turned on his heel and stormed out, surprised to hear what sounded like a sigh from his father behind him.

In the parking lot, the Impala gleamed silently in the late evening sun, contained and impressive amongst the beat-up 4x4s and long haul trucks. Instead of calming him, its serenity pushed his banked anger up a notch, and before he could stop himself, he hurled the ring of keys in an overarm throw towards her shining hood. He put all his strength into the motion, and the second they left his hand he was overcome with horror. He saw it in his mind's eye – metal crashing on metal, the uneven surface of the keys scraping her all to hell with an ear-splitting noise, sliding down the panel leaving great white gouges in their wake. A small noise of horror escaped him. And then -

- something surged up in him, violent and overwhelming. Looking back he would describe it as a wave, but that wasn't accurate, there was nothing in his experience to compare it to. Whatever it was _reached_from him, and the course of the keys, and the course of his young life changed abruptly in the same jerking motion.

Instead of colliding with metal, the ring of keys swerved impossibly in its midair trajectory, sharply left, avoided the car and dropped harmlessly to the concreted ground at the side of the vehicle. The clatter of metal on concrete pierced the haze that had seized him, and Sam stumbled abruptly forwards, putting a hand on the untouched hood to steady himself. The rush of – something – had left him, leaving him with the feeling of losing a massive adrenalin high, sick and a little breathless, unsteady. He glanced around in panic, sure that somebody must have seen that. But the parking lot was deserted, and the windows of the motel had their blinds pulled or lights off, every patron absorbed by their private miseries of excitements. It was something he'd learned a long time ago, he reminded himself. Fooling civilians was easy because, not knowing the stakes of things, they were typically consumed with their own little problems and imaginary worlds of stability. He breathed, reached down and picked up the keys. Unlocked the car with shaking fingers.

Sinking into the shotgun seat, Sam lowered his head into his hands and tried to calm to pounding of his heart. What exactly had just happened? It felt like he'd somehow _diverted_ the keys through the force of his desperation. But that couldn't have happened. Could it? 'Most people would say the same about demons in nurseries', his ruthlessly logical brain insisted. But. Those were demons. He was a human. A person. Humans couldn't do that sort of thing. 'No humans you've ever _met…_….never met a Wendigo either, but they exist….'. Absolutely not. He'd come to his senses at the last second before he released the keys, and changed the angle of his throw so that they hit the concrete and not the car. Right. Of course. That was the only thing which possibly could have happened. The rest was just - imagination. And anger. Self-delusion had never been Sam's strong point.

But he could work on it.

Breathing, he leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs out, surprised to realize he would have to lever the seat back to fully extend them. He let his thoughts drift, but not too far, limiting himself to innocuous topics, replaying dialogue from Great Expectations in his head in English accents. He'd always had a good memory for words. A rap at the window made him jump, and he startled to realize two things – night had fallen, and his brother was standing outside the car, leaning over to scowl at him. Sam reached across and unlocked the driver's door. Dean came around and got in with much noise and performance, placing his hands on the steering wheel like he was going somewhere.

"So." He said finally.

"So." Sam wasn't about to make it easy. Part of him urged, 'tell him!', scared this new thing shouldn't be kept to himself, that any attempt to do so would come back and bite him in the ass royally. 'What thing?' he told himself sternly, using the voice that sounded like Dean at his most intractable: 'There is no thing. We discussed this. You changed the angle of the throw. Shut up'.

"You sleeping out here dude?" said the real Dean.

"Yes."

Dean snorted. "Seriously, come back in."

"I'm not talking to him."

Dean stared at him incredulously. Sam made a face. Okay, that _had _been kind of lame.

"Just….oh my God, Dean, how can you always put up with his bullshit?"

Pause.

"It isn't bullshit," Dean said. "It's true. What he said. He tells us everything that's safe for us to know."

"What were you saying about me?" Sam demanded.

"Jesus," Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Nothing. Just…he's worried about you."

Sam gave a short, ironic laugh.

"You can't see it," Dean insisted, "but he is. Even you got to admit that you've been acting like a thirteen-year-old girl at an Anne Rice convention."

"Maybe if I could sleep better I wouldn't," Sam said bitterly.

There was a long pause.

"D'you wanna…talk - about it?" Dean sounded like it physically pained him. Sam slid a glance across at him. His brother was actually blushing. One advantage Sam held over his fair-skinned sibling was that on the rare occasions that Dean blushed, it was cringe-inducingly obvious. Sam laughed. Dean glared, but then he laughed too.

"There's a figure," Sam said and sighed. "I dream about some kind of figure." Something flitted over Dean's face very fast. He covered it.

"A figure?" he asked casually.

"Don't ask me anything else about it. I don't remember. Could be freakin Santa Claus for all I know."

"Or a clown."

"It's not a clown," Sam glared. "But – no. That's it." He shrugged. "Not exactly enough to open a case file."

There was a longer pause. Then Dean said,

"Come back in the room."

And Sam did, handing the keys over.


	4. Chapter 4

The most notable thing about Blue Earth, Minnesota, was a full-color statue of the Jolly Green Giant. Much to Dean's amusement, the Giant appeared to be wearing some kind of dress made out of leaves, and Sam could practically see the wheels turning as his brother looked back and forth from the monument to Sam, formulating some witty remark about separation at birth, but Sam forestalled him with a glare, and he dropped it. Blue Earth was a whitebread county if Sam ever saw one: tidy middleclass houses with neat lawns, smiling neighbours, modestly Romanesque civic buildings in perfect upkeep. A banner advertised 'Moms and Preschoolers Meetup Morning' outside a community centre.

"There are hunters here?" Sam asked dubiously.

"Would it look like this if there weren't?" Dad returned, and Sam conceded the point.

They pulled off the main drag, turned through a few smaller side streets and Sam realized their destination: a moderately sized church with a small house and garage attached, plain bricked but with ornate touches in the stained glass windows and steeple. A sign on the front lawn read:

Welcome to Blue Earth Episcopalian Church.

Pr. Dr. Jim Murphy.

_The kingdom of God is within you. _- Luke 17:21.

"Doctor?" Sam asked.

"God stuff," said Dad shortly: "Theology." Neither of them had mentioned the previous night's fight, and Sam was inclined to keep it that way. He was having enough trouble keeping down the memories of what happened afterwards – convincing himself it was nothing, a misjudgement, just his stupid brain being overactive as usual. They parked, and Dad marched up to the rectory like he owned the place; Dean actually looked a little awkward, hanging a few steps behind Dad and vigorously messing Sam's hair up as a distraction to both of them. Sam ducked out from under his brother's hand and ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to restore some kind of order. He remained at the bottom of the porch steps with Dean, whilst Dad knocked loudly.

The man who opened the door was, for one thing, younger than Sam expected. He actually did a double take, wondering if this was a friend or relative, but the collar under the ordinary black shirt marked the man of the Church. Sam hadn't met a lot of priests, but those he had were – well, old. Definitely older than Dad. This one was probably younger. The pastor was slight, with a round, mild face, and quick dark eyes that didn't blanch at confrontation by John Winchester on his doorstep.

"John," he said pleasantly. "How nice to see you again."

"Jim," said John gruffly, and shook the pastor's hand.

Jim Murphy's eyes travelled down the few steps: "And this couldn't be Dean and Sammy, could it? My goodness, they're practically young men!"

Sam felt his brother tense instinctively beside him. Dean didn't like anybody to have an advantage on him, and having known him as a child was a definite advantage. Plus he probably didn't appreciate the qualifier 'practically'.

"Boys, get your stuff from the car," said Dad.

"Oh, let them come in first," said the pastor, in direct contradiction of John Winchester: "There'll be plenty of time for that later. Dad paused, then nodded and gestured for the boys to follow him. The rectory was modest, neat, and quietly welcoming – the pastor led them through to a sitting room with a couch, two chairs, a coffee table and a fully-stocked bookcase. A small television, looking unused, perched on a chest of drawers. It was all in direct contradiction to the little Sam knew about the way hunters lived – he thought of Uncle Bobby's sprawling, chaotic, rooms, cluttered with books, papers, artefacts, dog hair and half-empty coffee mugs. Sam and Dean exchanged pointed glances.

"I expect the boys hungry," said the pastor without a pause, "I'm afraid the housekeeper hasn't been in, but there are sandwiches in the refrigerator, and plenty of odds and ends. I stocked up. Please, make yourselves at home." He gestured in what Sam supposed was the direction of the kitchen. Embarrasingly, Sam's stomach growled. Damn growth spurts. The pastor hid a smile. Dean looked at Dad:

"Go on," John nodded, and they beat a hasty retreat in the direction the pastor had pointed, neither particularly comfortable in the neat suburban dwelling.

"So," said Dean through a mouthful of salami, bread and cheese. "You should be happy, Frances. Get to play house for a few days at least. Bet the pastor has a whole bunch of boring shit you haven't read yet."

"Close your mouth," said Sam disgustedly. "Yeah…I dunno. This is – weird."

"Weird how?"

"I just….I mean, does this guy seem like a hunter to you? Can you see him up against a werewolf or a wendigo."

"No Sammy, trust me," Dean looked suddenly serious. "Jim's badass. He was in the Marines with Dad."

Sam stared at him in surprise.

"They've hunted together a few times," Dean went on. "He had like, a whole iarsenal/i in the basement. Bet it's even bigger now. " He grinned at the prospect of a room filled entirely with weapons.

"Holy shit," said Sam and hit his forehead quietly against the table. "Hunters are freaks."

"Totally," Dean agreed, and crunched a handful of chips.

"Boys," said the pastor, appearing in the door silently behind them, and Sam jumped. "If you're done here, you might want to put your things in your room now. Dean, you remember where it is?"

"Yes sir," said Dean with surprising deference.

"Jim, please," the pastor smiled, and looked suitably beneficient. "That goes for you too, Sammy – we must have a talk later and get to know eachother. Do you still want to be an astronaut when you're older?" Sam felt himself blushing and Jim chuckled. "Your father and I have some business in town. Nothing exciting. Settle in, then you can get started."

"Started on what?" Sam asked.

"You'll see," said Jim in an even tone, and Dean groaned.

"Manual labour is good for the soul, Dean," said Jim mildly.

They got their bags from the car and deposited them in an attic bedroom – one bed on either side of the small room and a single wardrobe. Afternoon sunlight slanted through a single window, lighting dust motes in the air. It smelled like wood. Sam predicted smacking his head on the roof beams when he got up in the morning.

"Huh," Dean blinked. "This place has shrunk."

"You've igrown/i," Sam rolled his eyes.

A piece of paper with the church heading was tacked to the wall with a pushpin. At the top it said,

CHORES: BOYS.

SORT BASEMENT BOOKS BY SUBJECT

WASH CHURCH WINDOWS (ladder in basement)

SAND PEWS – REVARNISH

REPLACE CRACKED TILES

POLISH ALTAR STATUES

REPAINT NORTH ALCOVING

It went on.

"So I guess this is to keep us busy and stop us from knowing what's going on," said Sam.

"Come on dude," said Dean. "He's feeding us. This stuff has got to be done. Hell, I'll even let you do the books. They're probably old. You'll be in heaven."

"Whatever," Sam said, and went to lie on his bed for a bit.

As predicted, he smacked his head on the beam when he ducked.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the day passed in mindless manual labour. Dean assigned Sam a first task of cleaning the windows: suitably physical but, Sam supposed, fairly hard to fuck up or to injure oneself by, given a sturdy stepladder. The grime came away slowly, revealing somber big- eyed figures in bright robes, chunky haloes behind their heads, faces turned to heaven. Some were Bible scenes, mostly Christ's life: birth, baptism, crucifixion. Teachings to the disciples. _And he asked them, "But who do you say that I am?"_

Dean was pulling up the cracked tiles, predictably claiming the only job which required breaking something. When he found a tile to be removed, he shattered it with a hammer, called up to draw Sam's attention to 'explosions' that particularly pleased him, and gathered the loose pieces. For some reason it didn't annoy Sam today. It was almost – his mouth quirked – endearing.

They called it a day around 6.30, and since it was still sunny out, they sat on the lawn with glasses of lemonade that the pastor's housekeeper had left in the refrigerator. It was – nice –, Sam thought, with the warmth and bodily tiredness, and the prickly feel of grass through his jeans. It was easy to believe the whole key episode was a figment of his imagination. 'Everything is okay,' he told himself suddenly, forcibly. ' Everything's okay as long as you _don't think about it_. There's no need to make problems. You and your crazy brain'. Dean glanced at him sideways, shading his face from the sun, then expressed his satisfaction by lightly punching Sam in the upper arm.

"Get a vocabulary," Sam suggested.

"Get a girlfriend," Dean returned. "Or at least, get laid once in a while. It might help you loosen up." Sam scowled. It was only a throwaway comment – the kind of thing Dean said all the time. It didn't mean anything. Yet Sam knew that his brother had been sexually active at his age, and his father – well, John Winchester had been thirteen months older than Sam when he'd quit school for the Marines. Jesus. His family.

Shortly before 7, the Impala's familiar rumble announced their father's return. Pastor Jim was in the shotgun seat, a weird sight, a dirty pickup followed. Dad and Jim got out the car, and exchanged brief words with the drover. Sam caught a glimpse of an older black man in the cab of the truck, but couldn't hear their conversation. The older man nodded a couple of times, Dad and Jim stepped back, and the pickup rumbled off.

"Who was that?" Sam asked Dad as he stood up.

"A hunter," Dad said unhelpfully. "Go wash up. Hope you boys have been at the chores."

"We have."

Dinner was defrosted chilli and cornbread, once again made ahead by the mysterious housekeeper. Even though the only component that was technically fresh was a salad, Sam enjoyed the ritual of a meal coming out of the oven, the sitting around a table to eat – for one thing it made Dad uncomfortable, which was always entertaining. As they were putting the dishes away, Dad said,

"You up for a salt and burn, Dean?"

"What like - now?" His brother stopped in surprise.

"Possible restless spirit at the town library – more annoying than dangerous. Still I thought we could clear it up – done the research, and the cemetery we need's only fifteen minutes away."

"Well – sure! I mean, yes sir. Shall I get-"

"Everything's in the car, just bring your shotgun."

Dean nodded smartly and exited, heading for the stairs.

"I don't have to come, right?" Sam asked.

"I don't think we need you. Stay here and be a good guest to Jim. That means no attitude," Dad said. Sam made an expressive face at his back, which the pastor saw and smiled quietly.

"So. Young Samuel," The pastor settled himself in his lounge chair and turned to Sam, apparently all benevolent attention. "A good Hebrew name."

"I'm uh, called Sam," he said awkwardly.

"Sam it is then. Who are you?"

"Um," Sam blinked.

"Well, forgive me," the pastor gave a small smile, "But I've known your father for a long time, and your brother long enough to gain a significant impression. The last time I saw_ you _you were as high as the coffee table, and gave me a dissertation on dinosaurs. It was most edifying."

Sam blushed.

"You must be – fourteen now?"

"I was fifteen in May."

"Oh that's right. I am sorry. And – do correct me if I'm wrong – I get the sense that you're – less the devoted career hunter than the rest of your family?"

"_That's_ for sure." Sam stopped himself before he could say any more.

"So what do you like? What interests you?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. There were lots of things he could say. He didn't think the question had ever been put to him so directly.

"I'm good at school," he said.

"A scholar," Jim nodded approvingly. "Well, they're not incompatible, you know. He gestured briefly towards the bookshelves.

"But it's not like I get any of _that,_" Sam said before he could help himself.

"What do you mean?"

"Well we never stay in one place long enough. I join a school, then I leave. I don't have anywhere to keep books. We need the trunk for weapons." Appalled that so much had come out at once, he closed his mouth forcibly. Sam didn't_ know_ this guy, and the last thing he needed was him interceding with Dad, thinking he was doing Sam a favour. All that would earn him was a lecture and more drills.

"I imagine life must be difficult," the pastor looked sympathetic. "It's – a terrible thing. What happened to Mary."

And that threw Sam, because he somehow hadn't registered that the pastor knew about that – but of course, if he'd known Dad since the Marines, he'd known him when he got married.

"Your father's a driven man," the pastor said.

"I hate it," said Sam. "It's no way to live . Always running to or from something, always fighting, never anywhere long enough to do good a school, or hey, make a friend once in a while. Someone _normal_. Plus my dad hates me." That last part wasn't true, and Sam knew perfectly well it wasn't true – or fair. He just felt like it right now, and with everything tumbling out of him he might as well express it.

"I'm quite certain he doesn't," the pastor said.

"You don't _live_ with him."

"True," Jim tilted his head thoughtfully. "But I know what lengths he went to to keep you two safe – and the three of you together, not incidentally. Still goes to. Which isn't to say I don't appreciate that you don't want to be a hunter."

It was the first time anybody except Sam had said that out loud, acknowledged and affirmed that Sam was different from the rest of his family. Dad dismissed what he wanted; Dean seemed to live under the perpetual illusion that one day Sam would wake up and realize that hunting was what he was supposed to be doing after all.

"I really don't," Sam said. "I want to go to college."

Jim looked thoughtful. "This probably isn't my place," he said, "But let me re-iterate that studying and hunting are not incompatible. I know a thing or two about colleges. f you ever need a reference, or help acquiring books…"

He let it trail off.

"Um," Sam said. "Um, thank you."

"It would be my pleasure," Jim said. "What sort of books do you like best?"

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

By the time he was thirteen, Sam knew that most pre-teenagers sincerely believed they were special. But he also had increasing evidence that ihe/i actually, objectively was. Not just in the sense of being a freak – a freak to the outside world by virtue of being a hunter, and a freak to his family by virtue of wanting otherwise – but in the sense of being, as school lingo had it, 'gifted and talented'. He'd overheard them in staffrooms quietly marvelling that the Winchester boys were related, speculating on what kind of home they came from. Teachers didn't know what to do with Dean, with his attitude and his public disdain for the educational system, always first with a witty rejoinder but two grades behind in reading. Sam knew, deep down, that Dean was far from stupid: he could repair a car engine from spare parts, splint a broken bone, and disassemble and reassemble a handgun in less than a minute _blindfolded in case it was dark_. But his brother's depreciation for books, history and philosophy frustrated Sam and secretly made him feel useless. So when he really wanted to hurt his brother, he pretended to pity him.

At an ambitious school in California, Ms. Bannister the English teacher took him aside at the end of last period.

"Sam," she said. "Can we talk for a minute?"

"Um, okay," said Sam. He'd gotten a 97 on the last exam and didn't really see how she could ask for more. She was young and optimistic and wanted to be down with the kids, doing the understanding bit, on the edge of her desk with her posture open and her eyes earnest.

"I want you to know that your paper was quite exceptional. Your writing shows more maturity and sensitivity than some college students I've graded. I only expected answers on i Oliver Twist/i, but apparently you're a scholar of Victorian literature."

Sam looked down and scuffed his foot. It seemed stupid to say he related to Dickens's children: special, suffering, mistreated, martyred.

"I just wanted you to know I'm here if you want to talk about anything – extra reading, the course, college prospects…"

"College?" Sam looked up abruptly.

"It's never too early to start planning. If you keep this up you'll have the college of your choice."

"Oh," Sam said.

"And – anything else." She looked earnestly at him. "If you're having any problems…."

_Oh._

"Sam, I've noticed the bruises," she went on quietly. "The long sleeves, too. The gym teachers have their registered concern. Is it…someone in your family?"

It all fell into place. What they thought of him, what they thought of his brother. Jesus. Sam felt sick with guilt - that anyone could entertain the possibility of Dean hurting him.

"I want you to know that there's help for you, okay? Whatever they've told you. I'm going to give you a phone number…"

He didn't know what to do, so he told Dad:

"I can't go hunting this weekend. Ms. Bannister thinks you or Dean is beating the shit out of me."

They changed schools shortly thereafter.

He awoke, disorientated, in the narrow bunk, the residue of fire in his dream and knowing he'd been commanded to do something, something he didn't want to, compelled by the shadow figure. It took him a long moment to remember where he was – Pastor Jim's house. Minnesota. The sheets were cold – even high summer air was chilled at this hour of the morning.

He'd meant to stay awake until Dean got back, but he hadn't. Sure enough though, his brother was asleep in the other bed, solid and real, the rhythm of his breath reassuring. When they were little, and he'd woken up cold, he would dive right into his brother's bed and press cold feet and hands against him. Dean would protest and pretend to shove him out, but he hadn't called a stop to the habit before Sam was old enough himself to decide it was weird.

"Dean," he said, not wanting to be alone with the dream-residue. Then, louder, "Dean."

_"What?"_

"It's morning."

Dean groaned and flung an arm out of bed, then swore when his knuckles connected with the little table between the beds. Sam chuckled.

"You salt and burn it?" he asked.

"No," said Dean shortly. "Well, yeah. But there's another one. We gotta go back."

Sam sat up, remembering about the roof beam at the last minute and catching himself.

"What's the deal?"

"Some kid ran away from home back in the seventies, turned up dead. We thought it was just one. But a second spirit turned up at the last minute and tried to toast us. Salted it. Either someone else died, or this one offed herself afterwards or something – it's a dude and a girl."

"Oh," Sam said. Then, "That's sad."

Dean said nothing, but got up and tossed his pillow at Sam. "I'm starving. The sooner we finish the run, the sooner we can see what's for breakfast in this joint."

They had run five miles first thing every morning, rain or shine, for as long as Sam could remember. It was one part of training he didn't actually mind – for one thing, it was useful, because being able to run from bad shit was a life skill he figured he could use under many circumstances, not necessarily related to hunting. For another, mindless exertion cleansed the residue of dreams and vagueness from his brain, reduced thought to physicality, just the rhythm of feet hitting the ground, the slow-build burn of his muscles, the draw and expel of air moving steadily through his trained lungs. Finally, it removed the need to talk – lately every time he talked to Dean they ended up sniping, and these times restored equilibrium between them, working in tandem, not friction. Dean was stronger than him – but his new height meant he could keep up now, without Dean having to accommodate.

They filled Pastor Jim in on the local hunt over toast, cereal, and orange juice. Jim had both muesli and the kind of frosted sugar Dean preferred. Dad didn't eat, but drank two cups of black coffee, and Sam wondered if he'd drunk last night, in the presence of Pastor Jim.

"Oh, that sounds like the Richardson tragedy," Jim said. "It's a terrible story. A young man with severe learning difficulties couldn't adjust to his family's move to town – he left the new house in confusion one night and drowned in the park pond. His devoted sister couldn't live with the guilt. I'm afraid she killed herself."

"That's awful." Sam was horrified

"Yeah well," Dean said uncomfortably. "He's moved on now. Best thing is to salt and burn the girl too. If she's so attached to him, and all."

"I quite agree," Jim said. "The chores can wait a day or so. Unfortunately, as a suicide, the girl probably wasn't buried in the Catholic cemetery. A day of investigation awaits us." He looked at Sam.

"The boys can handle that," Dad spoke up. "Jim, you and I have that matter to follow up." The older men shared a meaningful look.

"What matter is that?" Sam asked innocently, more to be provocative than because he thought there was any chance of an answer. Dean kicked him under the table, and Dad said,

"Eat your breakfast."

Jim changed the subject then, and they finished breakfast. Jim gave Sam and Dean directions to the local library, and the four parted ways.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank you very much for the faves and alerts. I feel warm and fuzzy. This week, you can has two parts :)**

_**BLUE EARTH HERALD**_

_Monday, June 12, 1972._

_**DOUBLE TRAGEDY CLAIMS SECOND LIFE**_

_**SISTER OF DROWNED BOY IN SUICIDE**_

_Amelia Louise Richardson, 16, sister to the late Harold 'Harry' Richardson, was found dead at the Richardson home early yesterday morning. Coroners recorded a verdict of suicide._

_Harry, 18, who was severely retarded -_

"It says retarded," Dean observed, leaning over Sam's shoulder to look at the microfiche.

"It was the seventies," Sam said absently. "People did."

_drowned in a tragic accident at Fisher's Pond last week, as the Herald's b Jim Frank/b reported. Amelia, who is said to have been devoted to the boy, died from a massive overdose of painkillers and sleeping tablets, which had been prescribed to her mother._

_"She protected him throughout his life," said father Jack Richardson. "He was like her reason. They were the most important people in each other's world. Amelia felt like she'd failed Harry, and I guess she felt she couldn't go on without him."_

A weird feeling snaked its way down Sam's spine. Amelia Richardson, sweet and dark eyed, smiled serenely from what looked like a high school photograph, hands folded demurely in the pleats of her knee-length skirt.

"That's the chick alright," Dean affirmed in a low voice. "Except you know. Restless spirit style." He made a glaring-eyed facial expression and raised his hands into claws in what Sam assumed was an approximation of the spirit. "She was all, don't touch him, tried to stop us from burning the bones. Which makes sense, I guess." He looked uncomfortable. "The retarded ghost was just, knocking crap over, but I get the feeling this one will get nasty if we don't do something about her."

"She's tormented," said Sam softly. Dean said,

"Yeah."

They continued reading. The Richardsons had been devout Catholics; Amelia wore a discreet crucifix in the photograph. The next few months' papers revealed that the parents had tried for burial on hallowed ground, but the Church had overruled them: Amelia's remains lay in a field beyond city limits, marked by an apple tree.

"That's pretty shitty," Dean said. "Don't get me wrong, ghosts are ghosts. No doubt she's twisted from sticking around, but they shoulda buried her right. Wasn't her fault."

Sam looked up in surprise. It was rare that his brother expressed sympathy for the dead. "It was against the rules," Sam said. "They were Catholic. She believed suicide was a deadly sin but she did it anyway. You can't change the rules when it doesn't suit you."

"Some sin. What about when you're no good to anyone? Like, a deadbeat on drugs or whatever? Seems like more of a favour."

Sam's mouth hung open a little. Dean's tone was light, and he was still flicking through microfiche, but they were almost having a philosophical debate here.

"It's – giving up," Sam said carefully. "Giving in. Quitting on your responsibilities."

"Her responsibility was _dead_," Dean pointed out. "Find a town map. We need a co-ordinate on this field."

They worked through lunch, and got everything done in one day. Just as they were wrapping up, Dean received a text message. The cell phone was a new acquisition: expensive, but damn useful, and the credit card of one Thaddeus B. Clement was paying for it anyway. iThis will take the night. Jim and I will be back in the morning. Be ready to salt and burn tomorrow night. Dad./i

"Free night, Sammy," Dean said, and caught the eye of the young female library assistant.

Having spent two days at Jim's with no further manifestation of – whatever, Sam was felt more relaxed, and vaguely as though he should apologize to Dean for being a general bitch, but the thought of apologizing made him annoyed all over again. So he just said,

"Knock yourself out," and went to wait in the car, closing his eyes and fantasising about dinner. There was no chilli left, but he distinctly remembered seeing Hawaiian pizza in the freezer box. When his brother to slid into the driver's seat, he was grinning and brandishing the young woman's phone number like a trophy. Sam rolled his eyes and smiled at the same time. Dean punched him in the arm.

"She's got a little sister," Dean offered.

"No."

"She thought you were cute. In a dorky little kid kind of way, I mean."

Sam felt himself blush.

"I don't _need_ you to get me dates."

"Really? Because no offense, Sammy, but I don't exactly see the ladies hurrying to-"

"Oh my God! If I want to ask a girl out, then I'll ask her out, okay?"

"I'm just saying you should have a little fun once in a while. Dude, you're too serious. It's not good for your brain," he ruffled Sam's hair.

"Drive," Sam said.

Later that night, pizza eaten and Dean off on his recreational pursuits, Sam got the key to the Church basement and went to look at the books there. He had already started to sort them, but there were some he wanted to look at leisurely: compilations on the occult that looked like the work of fellow hunters. Hand-bound, but better kept and more organized than Dad's journal, they were obviously meant to be passed around, but not for broad public consumption. Some had alphabetical indexes. Sam opened the first one and almost without volition, and his eyes skipped to

_**HUMANS; ABILITIES.**_

Something seemed to rise in his chest. He had a sneaking suspicion that if Dad were here, he would take the book out of Sam's hands. Well, tough. Jim had itold/i him to come down here and look at the books. Sam turned to the appropriate entry.

The text had been printed using an old-fashioned typewriter. It wasn't a professional job. There were smudges, and the margin was on a slant. Sam read:

_IN OUR EXPERIENCE, HUMANS WITH SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES ARE ALMOST ALWAYS DANGEROUS. THEIR POWERS TYPICALLY RESULT FROM HELL-DEALS, OR MORE UNUSUALLY, A SKILLED NECROMANCER CAN APPROPRIATE DEMONIC OR SUPERNATURAL POWER WITHOUT NEGOTIATION. IN JULY 1969, SHORTLY BEFORE OUR ASSOCIATION, LORENCO KILLED A WITCH WHO HAD BEEN TORTURING FAMILIES IN NEW YORK, NEW YORK, IN TWISTED RETRIBUTION FOR THE LOSS OF HIS OWN DAUGHTER. WE ARE IN NO DOUBT HE WAS ONCE A NORMAL HUMAN._

Sam put the book down hard. Then he picked it up again and went back to the index. This time he tried,

_**HUMANS; DREAMS.**_

_MOST DREAMS APPARENTLY PREDICTING OR INFLUENCED BY SUPERNATURAL EVENTS ARE COINCIDENCE AND SELECTIVE MEMORY. SEVERAL HUNTERS RECOUNT FOLLOWING UP SUPPOSED PSYCHIC DREAMS TO FIND THE DREAMER EITHER LYING OR DELUSIONAL. THEY ARE RARELY DANGEROUS. ON OCCASION, HOWEVER, DEMONS HAVE MANIFESTED IN THE DREAMS OF HUMANS IN THEIR POSESSION, OR IN WHOM THEY HAVE SPECIAL INTEREST._

Oh, God. No. It couldn't be. What would a demon want with him? 'Everything. You know, you've always known how different you are, how special, and it came to your nursery…'. Bullshit. He slammed the book closed and ran back up the staircase, barely remembering to lock the door behind him. He stood in the living room, panting, trying to calm himself. He tried to remember if there was any kind of alcohol in the house. He had rarely drunk, but a few months ago when he'd needed some stitches, Dad had given him a shot of Jack and he could really use the numbed out, fuzzy feeling right about now. He found a few bottles of in a cabinet next to the chest of drawers. He uncapped one that looked dusty and seldom used, and chugged a few mouthfuls of something awful, sweet and burning and cloying. It did the trick. Fifteen minutes later he was feeling comfortably numb, fell asleep on the couch, and didn't wake up until Dean started hammering on the front door around three o clock in the morning.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

For all his talk about Sam needing to get a life, have more fun, et cetera, coming home to find his little brother wasted seemed to disconcert Dean.

"Dude, you couldn't wait for me to get the party started?" he had asked lightly, tipped the remains of whatever Sam had been drinking down the sink, and rearranged the bottles in the cabinet so the gap was less obvious. He opened a window in the living room, and told Sam to take a shower before he went to bed.

"Couldn't sleep," Sam explained lamely.

"So I see…next time just call me and I'll bring beer or something…Jesus, what is this stuff? Cough syrup? Expiry 1923?"

"Booze doesn't _expire_," Sam rolled his eyes, but it made the room swim alarmingly. "It mmm-matures."

"Shower," Dean levered him off the couch with by his arm. "And dump your clothes in the wash."  
>Dean did their run alone the next morning, letting Sam sleep it off, then allowed him to slack on the chores without saying anything. Sam was grateful. By the time Dad and Jim returned, he was feeling more or less human again, ready to salt and burn, a nice simple hunt, handing over the co-ordinates when Dad asked for them.<p>

"Good job boys," Dad said approvingly, and Dean stood up a little straighter. Jim caught Sam's eye and they shared a look.

A fifteen minute drive to the outskirts of town, and they located the mortal remains of Amelia Louise Richardson. A neglected headstone of crumbling rock, sheltered by a tree, and overgrown with dried grass, simply proclaimed her name,  
>dates of birth and death, and <em>Devoted Sister and Daughter<em>.

"Dean and I will handle the digging," Dad said. "Sam, you keep watch." He didn't give an explicit order to Pastor Jim, Sam noted, but the priest seemed content to ready the things for the exorcism, lighting a candle and finding a place in a thick book. Sam found a suitable post, his back to the work, and squinted out into the summer night, gun loaded with salt at the ready.

For a good hour of solid work, nothing happened. When Sam was younger, before he'd been allowed on the actual hunts, he'd imagined caskets just below the surface of the earth, imagined that Dad and Dean just turned the top layer of dirt over and there they were. Actually most graves were several feet deep, depending on state law, and a large part of regular salt and burns was tiring, boring digging. Sam's concentration was just starting to waver when he caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye.

He jerked to focus. It was gone. Then again – chalk white, the spectre of Amelia Richardson materialized at the far treeline.

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed, raising the gun. The diggers immediately dropped their shovels and went for the weapons instead. Amelia hovered, closer without seeming to have moved – her eyes were wide and sad, liquid pools, and her mouth downturned. She still wore the pleated skirt from her school photograph, and her hair was tied back with a wide ribbon. She looked young, and smelled of ozone.

"Amelia," said Jim appealingly. "You shouldn't still be here."

"You took him away," the ghost said mournfully. "He needs me."

"He was already gone," said Jim gently. "It's time for you to join him too. It's time to rest."

"No," said the ghost savagely, flickered, and appeared again directly in front of Jim. She opened her mouth, wide and gaping, reached up, and stuck her hand into his chest. Her non-substance disappeared grotesquely inside him, he dropped the book, and his mouth opened. He gasped. His skin turned a weird, translucent pale, almost matching the ghost. Dad and Dean couldn't fire from where they were standing without hitting Jim, and both started to move, but before they could up proper positions –

- Sam heard himself shout 'No', and then it was happening again, the thing inside him that welled up, jubilant at being free, laughing because he acknowledged it again, like a predator stretching its muscles and leaping after a long confinement. It swept through his bloodstream, right down to his toes and fingertips, and he reached out and _touched the ghost_, and the ghost exploded.

That was the only term for it. One second it was there, the next, with a crack like thunder, ozone burst and sprayed in every direction, evaporating before it could land, leaving nothing behind it. Jim collapsed. Dean went to him immediately, but Dad stood there, staring at Sam, an expression of horror and absolute grief on his face, frozen, and Sam sat down on the dirt.

X X X

"We'll fix it," Dad said, pacing back and forth in the armoury-basement, the light in his eyes Sam had only seen when he thought he was nearing the demon, hands moving ceaselessly over the knife in his hands. The knife was from Jim's collection, from a holster on the wall – the small room was crowded with weapons and holy objects, rock salt and jars of holy water. Sam sat restrained in the centre, roped to a chair, a devil's trap chalked on the floor around him. He could barely feel the ropes. The vestiges of the _thing_ were still flooding his body, cancelling pain, and he felt high, alive, and terrified, both himself and something not himself, and the thing was watching and sneering.

"We'll fix it, Sammy," Dad said again, "I promise. We'll get it out of you. It's going to be okay, son," but he was talking to himself.

"I can control it," Sam offered.

"No. You can't," Dad said. "It's bigger than you. It's the enemy."

"Dad?" Dean burst in, breathless, then exclaimed in horror, "What the hell are you _doing_?"

"It will be okay," Dad said, and Dean said,

"No!" and made as though to untie Sam, but Dad grabbed his arm and yanked him back hard before he could cross the devil's trap.

"Don't," Dad said, and his voice was absolutely deadly. "Don't you step across that line, Dean."

"Are you crazy?" Dean struggled in Dad's grip, but Dad still had the advantage in strength and experience – he twisted his elder son's arms behind his back and pinned them, then snarled into his ear,

"Do you want to help Sammy?"

"I – yes! Let me _go!_"

"Then hold still, and listen to me very carefully. I told you once there was a chance that something would happen to your brother. That something attacked him a long time ago – before you remember."

"It isn't," Sam tried to explain. "It's just how I am, it's always been-"

"It's the demon," Dad said, and Sam's mouth fell open, anything and everything he could've said abruptly cut off.

"The demon…?" he repeated weakly.

"_The_ demon," Dad affirmed. He let Dean go, and his brother just stood there, as stunned as Sam felt. "Sammy, that night in your nursery…I believe it - infected you. With some kind….kind of poison. I've been studying it for years, ever since…"

"Since?" Sam whispered.

"Since Jim touched you with holy water when you were four years old, and you screamed and told him the yellow-eyed-man didn't like it."

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

"What are you going to do?" Dean asked Dad.

"What I have to," Dad said and released Dean. "How's Jim?"

"He'll uh, be fine, I think," Dean didn't take his eyes from Sam. "Still unconscious, but all vital signs are good…"

"Go keep an on him."

"No."

"That's an order, Dean."  
>Dean hesitated. Sam didn't dare speak, but widened his eyes, appealing with his gaze. "No, <em>sir,<em>," Dean said finally, and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm staying."  
>Dad stared at him. His expression was disbelieving, and under that, something harsh like anguish.<p>

"We'll talk about this later," he said, and Dean said,

"Fine."

"Okay," Dad ran a hand through his hair and started to pace, back and forth. "Sam, I'm not going to touch you if I can help it. First recourse is spells." He went to the box of books and selected a worn volume, scanned the index, turned to a page and began an incantation in Latin.

Pain from the ropes burned into Sam suddenly, as the thing retreated or flinched momentarily. Then it laughed.

_Terrifying,_ it crooned. As though your little playground rhymes will work on me, Johnny. The book dropped from Dad's hands and he gasped, coughed, unable to form the words, and his eyes met Sam's. For the first time in his fifteen years, Sam saw his father afraid.

"Sam, stop it!" Dean shouted.

"I'm not doing it!" it Sam cried. "It's the-"

_But I_ am_ you, Sammy,_ it purred at him. _I'm part of you. The best part. What would you be without me? Nothing. I make you brilliant, and strong_.

"Alright," Dad growled. "You want it the hard way, you son of a bitch? Dean, get the holy water."

Dean went to the altar and returned with a small vat of holy water, which he handed to his father.

"Now go to the car and get the syringe, and the IV tubing. Bring some salt, too."

"You can't – Dad, it could kill him!"

"And you _think this thing won't_? It's the demon, Dean. You know what it did to your mother. I've been hunting this thing for fifteen years. In your worst nightmares, you can't imagine what it's capable of."

Dean looked to Sam, and the thing in Sam hissed and spat.

"I'm sorry," said Dean, turned and went out of the basement door.

"Don't worry Sammy," said Dad, as he carefully measured salt into a mixing tube on the sheet-covered altar. He spoke mostly to himself, head bent. "I know what I'm doing. Blood is saline – injecting the right proportion of water and  
>salt won't do you any harm. It will only get rid of the poison."<p>

Dawn was breaking. A faint glow of sunlight shafted through the basement windows. Through the stained glass, it painted the flagstones in coloured light, pink, gold, and blue-green. Sam was tired. The thing had retreated again, leaving him sagging, rope burns and the cramps of restricted blood flow.

"Have you done this before?" he asked in his own voice.

"It's been done," answered Dad. He still didn't look at Sam. Sam considered asking again for release, but really, what was the point? Dad's mind was clearly made up and nothing Sam said would stop him. Besides, at the stage, what with the creeping tiredness, he couldn't be sure if _he _wanted to be let go or the thing did. Shouldn't he want to be free of it? But he didn't want to die.

Dean was standing with his back to the wall, loaded salt gun in his hands, his eyes travelling from Dad to Sam like he didn't know which one of them was the adversary. His expression to Sam was apologetic, helpless, like the time Dad had come home drunk and stumbled into the shelving unit where Sam was keeping his sixth grade geography project, a replica of the inside of a volcano. The fragile thing was knocked to the floor and shattered. Dad ran sterilized water through the tubes, then started the saline solution of holy water.

"I'm going to break the circle now," he said to Sam calmly. "Keep it down."

The thing was restless and roiling now, uneasy at the nearness of the holy water. Sam tensed against the bindings, ropes cutting into his wrists and ankles, and Dad crossed the circle and knelt next to the chair. Disgust overwhelmed Sam, revulsion at the sight of his father's bent head, the incongruously fragile nape of his neck beneath the short military cut. He wanted to lash out, hurt him, and with a surge of the thing inside, the rope unwrapped from around his wrists in lightning-fast movement. He reached out, but Dad grabbed his right wrist hard enough to bruise, and before Sam could process anything else, Dad plunged the needle into the inside of his elbow.

For a long moment nothing happened. Sam froze, and the thing inside him froze too. Then a sensation like cold fire flooded him, starting in his arm, rapidly spreading out to the rest of his body through his bloodstream as his heart beat faster and harder. He felt his eyes open wide and the thing screaming – or was that him screaming, for he was the thing, and the thing was him, intertwined more tightly than ivy and crumbling bricks, pull one down and the other would surely follow. He was dimly aware of Dad standing back, watching him, motionless, and that Dean was shouting this couldn't be right, they would kill him, they had to stop it. A buzzing began in his head and the cold fire turned hot, how dare they, he loathed them, they were jealous because he was strong and they'd take it away from him –

- He cursed, a language he didn't know, and it promised he'd kill them both, kill everyone, burn the world for  
>this sick humiliation. His heart pummelled against his ribs, and with every pulse, the hot and the cold thing battled in his blood, tearing him up between them. His head fell forwards and vomit spewed out of his mouth, he could taste it, acrid and burning. Then he was falling, faster and faster, towards a pinprick of grey and sparkling colours that opened up and grew wide and gaping to swallow him. He heard from very far away, the basement door open again, and Pastor Jim's voice exclaiming something. Then the sparkly greyness turned black and all consuming.<p>

Then nothing.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

In 8th grade, in Florida, Sam had kind of had a girlfriend. Most of the girls in his class were still pretty dumb, hung out in cliques and stuck pictures of boybands inside their lockers and passed little notes in class on behalf of their friends that said 'DO YOU LIKE JENNY SPENCER LIKE THAT? CIRCLE Y OR N'. Hanna Chin was different. She was fourteen early in the year and didn't belong to any clique, read serious books under the desk and was bilingual. She was short and petite with a small secretive smile and her dark hair was so glossy it sometimes shone blue in the sun.

They used to sit out on the wall after class – it was a small school, with few extra-curricular activities, and things were generally pretty quiet after 4 p.m. Dean didn't get off work until 5, then he had to catch the bus across town to walk Sam home, because Dad had the car and the place they were staying in was kind of a bad neighbourhood, and Sam wasn't supposed to walk there alone even in broad daylight. Hanna waited with him voluntarily. If she went home, she said, she'd only have to work in the shop. Her parents thought she spent too much time reading.  
>They talked about life, and books, and being a youngest child, and how stupid most kids were and how they didn't have any idea about anything. Sam skirted vaguely around the subject of his family. She hoped he would stick around because most boys were so immature, but he wasn't:<p>

"You're special," she said, with that little smile, and initiated his first kiss. It was – a little oxygen deprived, because he wasn't expecting it, but startling how intimate just lips could be, barely any tongue, but enough to make his breath catch and something static whip down his thirteen-year-old body. And he knew he was glad to be special then, even though it was harder, because he would live and know things and feel things stupid ordinary kids never would.

He tried to run away with Hanna when they left the state, but Dad caught him on his way out the window.

For a long time, there was grey. Shifting mists, and darkness. The world roiled and muttered, discontent, subdued, and sick. He felt very ill. He didn't know where he was. He was floating. But probably not dead. He hoped not dead. If he was a ghost, they would have to put him down for sure. Put him down. Was that what had happened?

The grey gradually lessened. More and more shafts of light had begun to penetrate. There was movement around him, and voices, and he realized he was lying on his back, no longer bound to –

Oh. Sam opened his eyes with effort, needing to know what had happened. Dad was – trying to kill him. No, kill it. It? Where was it? But then he was distracted by a ceiling coming into focus, and then the walls, and with the surge of nausea that accompanies focalization he was lying on Jim's couch, in the living room.

"Hey Sammy." His brother's voice, sounding younger and more scared than he had in – ever. Dean was sitting on the floor, which he never did, and he reached up and patted Sam's chest lightly – a gesture of reassurance he considered sufficiently masculine. "Are you okay?"

"Ugh," said Sam.

"I bet you have, like, the worst hangover ever." The joke fell flat.

"Where's Dad?" His voice sounded strange to his own ears, but the room was in focus.

"I sent him out." – Pastor Jim's voice, and Sam sat up, too fast, and had to grip the arm of the couch for a moment as Dean held on to his arm. His brother got up and sat on the sofa next to him. Closer than he did usually. Jim was sitting in the straight-backed chair with his hands folded in his lap. He looked stern: grim, and un-clergylike.

"Sent him…?" Sam repeated.

"Not for good," Jim's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Told him I'd deal with this, and to leave for a while."

Distantly, Sam was shocked. No-one _told_ Dad to do anything. How long was a while? Hours? Days?

"Are you okay now?" Dean asked again.

Sam took a mental inventory. He felt sick, and extremely tired. His head ached. There were rope burns on his wrists and ankles, but they'd already been treated with something and lightly covered with gauze. The thing was silent.  
>Silent. His heart leapt in his chest suddenly. What had they done to him? Where was it? Was it – dead? Was he nothing now? Was he free? He turned inward, frowning. He couldn't sense it. But he'd never been able to sense it <em>all<em> the time, had he? Only when it wanted him to.

"I'm…okay," he said finally. "Think I'm gonna just…go to bed. What time is it?"

"Ten thirty," Jim said, and seeing Sam's confused look, "In the morning. Wednesday. You've been asleep about four hours."

"Oh." He had no real reaction to that. It could have been seconds – or days.

"Have something to eat before you go to bed. Or some juice, at least."

"Apple juice," Sam said.

"I'll get it," said Dean, and stood up. He messed up Sam's hair. And Sam remembered suddenly how Dean had disobeyed their father. Dean wasn't looking at him, but Sam could read him easily: guilt, overall, in every direction, self-recrimination, and Sam felt a little guilty himself, though he couldn't say why exactly. He drank two glasses of apple juice, used the bathroom, and wearily made his way to the loft, more than ready to sleep again. He was out the moment his head hit the pillow.

_The yellow-eyed one was sullen and battered, radiating resentment. The air around him was fiery, lit-up storm clouds restlessly churning._

I've always told you, _it advised Sam,_ how they want to keep you down. I want to raise you up. I can give you everything.

What do you mean? _He asked it. He had never addressed it directly before. It had never spoken so plainly._

'Princes, Potentates, Warriors,' as the poet had it: 'The Flow'r of Heaven.' Leave Dickens and his pathetic children. Read the prophet Milton. He's the scribe for you….Lord _It smiled slyly._

What did you call me? _Sam asked, astonished_.

What you are. _And it stood, unfurling itself, flames licked around its head, and darkness shifted behind it. _You believe that I am powerful. You believe the things you hunt, those scum and scrapings of earth and Hell, are powerful. You believe that your father – arrogant, autocratic, blind – has some kind of power over you. He fears you. As he should: only take up your sceptre, and you will see them for what they are: insects. You are a god.

You're insane, _Sam started to back away from it_

You're insane, _it echoed._ So they will tell you. Even your brother will doubt you one day.

_That hurt. Even here, that cut him_.

But you have always known what you are. _It retreated: furled power_.

Sam awoke, shivering, in pale light.

The End.

A/N: Thank you very much for the reviews, faves and story alerts. The next thing I'm going to do is seriously start on a Big Bang fic for next year, so it's unlikely I'll be posting any more medium-length fic for a while. I do have more fic over at my Livejournal, http:/reading_is_in[dot]livejournal[dot]com. The masterlist is sticky-posted at the top.


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